July 2007

July 31, 2007

I haven't completed a written assignment, of any kind, for any reason, for 25 years. I dropped out of university about a billion times because I couldn't submit papers.

So it comes as no surprise that facing my first written assignment for yoga teacher-training was a somewhat confronting experience, involving many an industrious evening washing walls, de-pilling my handknits, and watching mile after riveting mile of Fashion TV.

I also complained, bitterly. A Lot. To anyone who'd listen. The Iranian Guys, the poor, captive audience/employees at my local milk bar, know all about it.

And to those forbearing souls whom I've driven completely bonkers with my whinging,

July 27, 2007

Robbie was a truck driver, a drover, a shearer, and an all round, Authentic Australian bloke. He rode a big motorbike. He could whisper dogs, handle horses, and crack a bullwhip better than anyone I ever saw.

Robbie came to live with us when I was about 9 or 10. I don't recall ever once questioning the fact that he loved my mother. Blind Freddy could see that he did. He loved her enough to take on her three daughters as his own. He bought us bicyles, and took us camping, and looked after us when Mum was sick. And for a while there, it was all looking pretty solid.

But he was a blokey bloke. And blokey blokes, where I come from, were under extraordinary pressure to validate their manhood most evenings by proving how much beer they could drink before before closing at the local pub, how much shit they could talk with Their Mates, how loudly they could brag that they didn't give a fuck about what their wives thought, how many wild swings they could throw before randomly landing a punch, and how miraculously they could drunkenly negotiate the winding, narrow roads home, to a congealed dinner, and an increasingly disenchanted Dear One.

The Ending, when it came, left blood on the walls, kids hiding in the wardrobe, and a home knee-deep in broken glass. New scars, to compliment the relief sculpture that Mum had carved into the lounge room door with an axe, when Dad left.

Robbie lived alone, ever after, in the hope that she'd come back to him. But she never did.

When Mum died, 15 years later, he was still there, waiting to be my friend again. He made sure that I had a car to drive, and changed the washers in my taps when they broke. He gave me flannelette shirts, and woolly socks, and his favourite leather bike jacket, so I'd be warm. When I got too thin, he'd take me up to the pub for a counter meal, or cook me rissoles, piled high with broccoli and brussel sprouts. His rissoles, in my humble opinion, are still the best on the planet. We never talked about anything much.

But that's okay. With blokes like Robbie, it's what isn't said, that actually counts.

July 24, 2007

Being the kind of person who would happily never do anything ever again, Savasana in yoga is, predictably, my favourite part of practice. You bust your arse doing asanas for 2 hours, and then reward yourself by lying flat on your back like a stiff for 15 minutes at the end. Righteous Inertia. It's a Beautiful Thing.

Usually. Lately, I've been having visions during Savasana (anyone notice a theme forming, here?). Nasty, bastard, nightmare visions, straight from Harpyville, that have been frightening the shit out of me. Not very relaxing. Nooooo. Not at all.

So, you all know that I'm weird. I make no secret of it here. If there was an annual Weird Pride March held, I'd be in the vanguard, chanting fatuous slogans, and linking arms with total strangers. Stuff like this is not particularly unusual for me, just a pain in the arse. But I was obliged to confess the extent of my weirdness to the yoga teacher a little earlier than I would have preferred, feeling quite sure that he was going to throw me one of those sideways "Oh Jesus, I think we've got a cracker, here" looks, that I am so familiar with.

It seems, once again, that I have underestimated the yoga fraternity (bring us your tired, your injured, your traumatised and deranged). Peter Scott, who is TheUberdude of Iyengar Yoga in Australia, and who has been teaching for, like, ever, didn't even blink. He just tossed over an armful of sandbags and told me to pile them on top to keep me earthed. It would stop the visions.

Really?

Rightyoh, then.

Well, bugger me. Wrapped up and weighed down, I felt so safe. So comfortable. I relaxed. Demons with sharp, pointy teeth did totally not appear.

Yay!

I highly recommend it. Everyone should try this at least once before they die. Even people unlikely to ever find themselves recruited as a conduit for the Gates of Hell, will find that weighted Savasana is a lovely thing to do.

Trouble was, I didn't have any sandbags at home, and I've been trying to finish my assignment before I allow myself back into the studio to make anything, so the search for interim weight was on.

And then, as I napped on the couch this afternoon, a solution magically presented itself. So quietly and gently, that if it hadn't weighed about 50kg, and accidentally stepped on my stomach on the way up, I might never even have noticed.

I dream that I'm in public, in a stressful social situation, when somebody gleefully observes that the backs of my knees are covered in a perfectly hideous, flyblown, parasite infestation, that I am at a complete loss to either explain, or remedy.

The net result being, predictably, one of mortifying humiliation. I am aware, vaguely, that the maggots are the only thing keeping the whole sorry mess from spreading further.

And so it is that I now know that there are no age restrictions, (or parental consent requirements), for the purchase of cosmetic contact lenses. Anyone with $40 to burn - a mother out there, perhaps, who is annoyed to find that her toddler's eye colour clashes with the lipstick/handbag ensemble, can fix it all in a jiffy, with a quick trip to the local shopping megaplex.

Just thought you might like to know that.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go and drink copious amounts of Irish Whiskey, so as to forget, if only temporarily, that I have a teenager, and conjunctivitis, pending.